


Rule of Law

by thesignsofserbia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF Sherlock, Case Fic, Dubious but Well Researched Medical Science, Gen, John is Not Amused, Major Character Injury, Mention of torture, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Poor Lestrade, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock is an idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 07:33:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13782795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesignsofserbia/pseuds/thesignsofserbia
Summary: Sherlock’s sheer determination, and sparkling apathy towards literally any form of authority, may well be the only thing that can save this girl’s life. Because when Sherlock Holmes says he’ll do everything in his power; he means it.





	Rule of Law

 

It’s cases like these that make John certain; there is absolutely no way he could do Greg Lestrade’s job. Being a cop is hard work and being the DI of the Major Crime Squad in central London only makes everything a thousand times worse. Greg’s team is the front line against all of London’s shittiest and most dangerous people. High pressure, impossible workload, and the artery erupting level stress of knowing that every decision you make could end a person’s life.

John lived these things for most of his career and thrived, but John was fighting armed militants whose only aim was to put as many bullets in them as possible. This stuff is literally a world away from the line John held. Because in the civilian world, there’s a lovely little thing called the legal system.

Preventing corruption and holding people accountable for their actions. You _need_ that; it’s vital to almost every aspect of human society. It’s vital in a warzone too, but there’s not always time in a firefight; and things tend to slip through the cracks. That’s when atrocities happen, and that’s exactly why we need it.

It’s necessary, it prevents the world from descending into chaos, saves thousands of lives. But for the police force, red tape can just as easily extinguish them too. Processing, authorisation, warrants for arrest; all of these things take time to arrange, spread over countless levels of hierarchy and departments who just can’t seem to _communicate_ with each other. Time that sometimes, you just can’t afford. Every so often, the system lets you down.

John just hopes that this time isn’t one of them.

For four days, John and Sherlock are cemented into Greg’s shoes. Leads are minimal, and the paperwork for this case alone is 90% responsible for deforestation worldwide. They’re buried up to their necks, eyes burning in search for the tiniest possible detail. Anything at all that will help that little girl. They spend every daylight hour neck deep in non-descript manila folders, and at night; they hunt for leads.

John starts falling asleep standing up.

Nine years old, and unlucky enough to be fathered by a dodgy lower-house backbencher. Especially one as corrupt as they come. He owes some very serious people a frankly staggering amount of cash. So much that they must know he could never pay it back.

The sort of people, as Sherlock so bluntly announced in the middle of the incident room, who are perfectly capable of slitting a nine-year-old girl’s throat and streaming it live. Not just that, Sherlock is convinced that’s exactly the point; they fully intend to. This isn’t ransom, it’s about cutting their losses, and making an example.

Courtney Hayes is not a hostage, and her time is running out. This is about a very small child, locked up on death row. There’s no room for errors, or even to breathe. There’s so much pressure, that everyone is too terrified to take a risk, terrified of the prospect of a massive and public investigation if anything goes wrong.

The justice system is all very well and good until a small child is balanced on her scales.

And Sherlock is killing himself trying to solve it.

But the thing about Sherlock, is that he has been incapable of following a single rule since the moment of birth. He probably opened his eyes, and instead of crying; told the neo-natal nurse to piss off. Sherlock doesn’t give a damn for legal consequences, all that matters is results.

And for this team, on _this_ case; he’s a miracle with a scowl.

He breaks into houses and steals anything that could be evidence. He traces suspects phones and cars, destroys years of effort for undercover agents. They bug gang headquarters and start fights with men three times their weight combined. Sherlock runs ragged around the city for four days with John in tow, breaking every law he can think of. But the real breakthrough isn’t a rule, it’s not even a window; it’s a dislocated jaw, three broken fingers, and a fractured arm.

Sherlock kidnaps a man, ties him up, and John resets the bones.

What Greg doesn’t know won’t ruin his career.

Sherlock’s sheer determination, and sparkling apathy towards literally any form of authority, may well be the only thing that can save this girl’s life. Because when Sherlock Holmes says he’ll do everything in his power; he means it.

~

No one knows how he did it, and they know better than to ask; but he _finds_ her.

Sherlock bursts into the room at five o’clock in the morning, limping, black eye, face covered in blood, and just like that; he knows where she is.

Courtney Hayes has just 19 hours left to live.

Sherlock and John are gone before they can even gear up, and just ten minutes later, they get the call from the corporal on the ground. The radio said all units to the docks, and Lee’s car was just around the corner. He’s got eyes on the target, and the news is spectacularly bad.

Typically, neither of them answer the phone.

~

There’s a squad car parked two blocks down; standard panda car out doing a patrol, but he’s done a good job of hiding it, so Lestrade must have called all units. John scares the life out of him knocking on the window. The cavalry is on the way, but they’re being held up by bomb squad.

No one’s going to have their throat cut; they’re going to blow that girl apart.

That’s the first big problem. The second; is the empty space by his side.

Because by the time John turns away from the car; Sherlock is already in the building _._

John gets into a physical fight with the second officer trying to stop him, but Lestrade shows up before he can win. It takes four of them to hold him back.

“Midnight John! They said we have until midnight, there’s still time.”

John is livid.

“He’s already in there! He’s bloody _Sherlock Holmes;_ one glimpse of him, and they’re both dead.”

Lestrade nods, contemplating it for a moment. But Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade is a sneaky, back-stabbing _bastard_.

“Right, you three; cuff him. In the back of the car, now! I want eyes on John Watson at all times.”

Everyone lunges at once, John because he’s going to slug Lestrade and make a run for it, Lestrade to restrain him, and the other three to squash him in a rugby scrum. John gives Greg a bloody nose and gets locked in a police car, screaming furiously through the glass.

It’s that damned red tape again. Usually with Lestrade there’s plenty of leeway; they would go running in together, and no cop would bat an eye. But one mention of explosives, and the bars slam down; this case triples the anxiety, everything is to be planned to the millimetre, exactly by the book. Tactical response geared up ready to go, but bomb squad is still pissing about getting organised, and Greg is waiting for his orders.

“Look, I’m sorry mate, I really am, but I can’t have you go running in this time. We’ll get him out, I promise.”

John calls him every name, in every language he knows. He changes tactics and promises to co-operate, but they know damn well he’ll be off and running the second they turn their backs.

“Let me out of this fucking car!”

Lestrade isn’t going to budge.

~

John is taking his time to catch up, even with his initials blatantly chalked on the door. But waiting for him is not an option; it’s time to do some reconnaissance.

It takes him approximately one minute to discover the explosives, but it’s going to take a whole lot longer to find the girl. It’s a big warehouse, and it has an irritatingly large number of offices and storerooms, some of them located up a flight of very loud looking metal stairs. Not to mention in an ex-factory this old, there’s almost certainly a basement. Sherlock _hates_ it when they have basements.

The bomb is not really an element in his favour, but it’s only mid-morning, so if he plays his cards right, the whole thing will be over with hours to spare. So far, so only a Tiny Bit Not Good.

Sherlock checks his watch, keeping an eye on the excessively bulky men sitting around with their excessively aggressive tattoos. Two of the four are clearly on steroids of some kind, so hopefully they’re weaker than they look. The third is your bog-standard mercenary, and not a very good one if he’s been tasked with this job.

But it’s the smallest one he’s worried about, because Sherlock can tell just from the way he’s built; that this man is a professional boxer. Not that deductions are strictly necessary in this case; Sherlock knows _exactly_ who he is and is not likely to forget anytime soon. He beat the living shit out of Sherlock in the ring when he was nineteen and it was brutal; the fight hospitalised him. Sherlock is not a teenager anymore, and this man is significantly older, but Sherlock mentally ticks him off as not to be underestimated.

He frowns at his watch again, because John is inexcusably late. He could be lost trying to find his way in, he _could_ have become uncharacteristically stealthy overnight, but realistically, Sherlock has to assume something has gone drastically wrong. If they have John, Sherlock is completely out of time.

At least if they do, they probably won’t kill him right away. Because John’s presence will surely make the video go viral. He can’t imagine John going quietly, but he hears no shouting, no fist fights, and no one looks the slightest bit interested. That doesn’t change the fact that he’s MIA, which only triples Sherlock’s motivation; he’s got to find the girl.

When he looks back up, the boxer is gone.

~

Sherlock makes five out of the seven offices before he gets caught. Naturally it’s his old friend, light on his feet by occupation. Sherlock is impossible not to recognise, but it’s no surprise he doesn’t remember. Back then he wasn’t The World’s Only Consulting Detective, he was just another kid, desperate to get himself beaten half to death for kicks. Street run boxing rings are one of the very best ways to get high. Not chemical, but still highly illegal and deliciously dangerous.

Sherlock’s back twinges painfully before a blow even lands. But then, a blow never does. Sherlock still loses his rematch, but then, loaded guns are not exactly fair game, so he gets to keep his pride.

They very helpfully show him the way to the basement, and then crack him over the head. A surprise celebrity cameo for the trip down death row. John will be furious.

~

This is precisely the reason warehouse basements should be banned, and the ones left filled with concrete. They always come with a nasty headache, a locked door, sometimes a bucket to piss in, but always the ever-present threat of impending doom. And judging by the state of his lower back; they’ve probably thrown him down the stairs. It’s not like he really needs to be _alive_ to get blown up after all.

Something snuffles about two metres to his right, and he holds very still, just in case they decided to feed him to a pitbull. He opens his eyes to find a girl cowering in the corner, covered head to toe in Ninja Turtle pyjamas, crying her eyes out.

Courtney Hayes.

Sherlock is no stranger to captivity, nor the brutality that inevitably comes with it. But this picture is _wrong;_ no child should be locked in a place like this, and his innate biological imperative reluctantly rises from whatever grave he’d thought it buried in. She will never know the horrors he has known, he will ensure it at all costs.

John on the other hand, is nowhere to be seen which, hopefully, is a very good sign.

“Hello.”

Her face scrunches up, and she turns it away. Internally he groans, because a broken watch can’t tell him how long he’s been out, and there’s not a huge amount of time for patience. Not to mention he’s horrendously out of his depth.

Sherlock liked that watch.

He stares at the ceiling and decides to leave her alone; it always worked with the neighbour’s cat. It’s an extremely effective strategy when it comes to cats, their vanity makes them only too predictable. Given enough time and lack of attention; they’ll come to you, incapable of being ignored. Hopefully it works the same way for children.

“Are you a bad man too?”

Right on cue. Perhaps the murky and incorrigible waters of babysitting are not so deep after all. But it’s a very complicated question when it comes to him, one he’s not sure he could answer with any confidence, so he deflects.

“Do _you_ think I am?”

He won’t tell her to trust him, she must decide to do so on her own. You should never give trust to anyone who has to ask for it first. That said, if he has to drag her out screaming and trying to kick him in the face, so be it.

She shakes her head.

“You don’t _look_ like a bad man.”

Sherlock isn’t quite sure if he should be insulted.

“But?”

“Well why are you here if you’re not one?”

The premise of the argument is fair enough. Apart from the bit where he was unconscious and _also_ locked in the basement.

“It’s Courtney, isn’t it?”

“I’m not supposed to-”

“I’m Sherlock Holmes.” He interrupts, “I’m here to take you home.”

The girl just stares, and the context of the situation is not lost on him. He is a grown man, _Sherlock Holmes_ for god’s sake, and he can’t even manage to rescue a kidnapped little girl. But at least she’s stopped crying.

“It’s a work in progress.”

Somehow, in her tiny under-developed mind, this constitutes an acceptable answer. She’ll probably be traumatised for life of course, but it’s strange how just the idea of an adult being present, extremely suspicious or not, can change a child’s outlook. Sherlock is her _chaperone._

He never _has_ been very good with small humans. He’s not exactly the most child friendly of people, a fact unanimously agreed upon by parents, which leaves him little data as to how to interact. But she’s small, scared, and freezing, so at least one of the three he can fix.

She shrinks away as he sits up, shuffling back to lean against the wall. His head is still pounding, there’s definitely something wrong with his back, and he desperately needs to think of an escape strategy. With difficulty, he wriggles out of the coat, and places it carefully in the space between them.

“You should take it. I’m no expert, but I don’t think eight degrees is really the ideal weather for pyjamas.” She hesitates. “It’s alright, it’s just a coat. But it’s my favourite so you’ll have to promise to give it back.”

He smiles. Courtney takes the coat and disappears inside it like a tent, but a flash of colour catches his eye.

“Actually…would you mind if I borrowed your watch? Mine won’t co-operate.”

She flings it at him through a gap in the coat, bright green, continuing on with the theme of sword-wielding turtles, and definitely not going to fit around his wrist.

4:43pm

He’s been out significantly longer than he’d estimated, and it’s impossible to tell how long they have left. In fact, he’s very lucky not to have slept through the entire thing. Because although midnight is satisfyingly dramatic for executions, Sherlock’s presence says the police are on their way, and it’s extremely unlikely they’ll continue to play fair.

They could have only minutes left.

~

It’s not an especially clever plan, but it’s all they’ve got. Now all he has to do is sell it to a frightened child and convince her to run out into a room full of explosives, and lots of men who want to kill her. The one aspect of this in his favour, is that she probably doesn’t know about the bomb. Or that she was never supposed to survive.

He talked _at_ her for a while, and at some point, she must have come to the conclusion that his incompetence at rescuing her, and sheer determination _not_ to be frightening deems him trustworthy. Or she just needed to leech away his body heat. Either way, she’s wrapped up and asleep under his arm, while he’s freezing his arse off, so they must be making progress. He jostles her shoulder.

“Wake up, it’s time to go.”

He at least has the good sense to warn her that it might be a bit loud before he starts attacking the old lock with the butt of a star picket. Every hit must count; they can’t afford to risk alerting the muscle. He gets it off in six and hurries her up the stairs.

As they creep down the hall to the main loading area, Courtney holds on tight to his hand. At the entrance, just out of sight, Sherlock crouches down to her level, and looks her in the eye.

“Okay.” He takes her by the shoulders. “This is what’s going to happen. You see that red door over there, the big metal one? Yes. Look at me. _You are going through that door_. I don’t care if you run, walk, or crawl, I’ll even carry you. But whatever happens; you _have_ to go through it, understand? Everything will be alright when you do, I promise.”

She’s nodding but looks perilously close to tears, and she cannot do that right now. He smiles tightly to reassure her. It doesn’t.

“Then you _run_ , run towards the lights, and you don’t stop running. Not until you see a grey man in a suit; his name is Greg.”

She still looks terrified, but she’s doing very well so far. Under the circumstances he’s not so bad at all this nanny nonsense either. John once labelled him the worst potential babysitter on the face of the planet, so he looks forward to the gloating. Now all he has to do, is make sure she isn’t shot mercilessly between the eyes. Or blown to smithereens. At least as far as day-trips go, this one is interesting.

“The grey man, is he good?”

Sherlock’s fingers tighten on her shoulders, and this time, the smile is real.

“The best.”

~

They creep along the outside walls, Courtney under the coat, and shadowing his left leg closely so he can feel her at all times, just as he asked. He’s careful to stay between her and the room, but he’s concerned they’ll just open fire, because if they do, they’re a much bigger target than if she were on her own.

There’s shouting. The steroid brothers have found the basement empty, and he urges Courtney to keep moving, but she’s stopped at the sound of voices, tugging on his trousers. She knows the bad men are coming, and she’s freezing up. Why do children insist on being so difficult?

At the worst possible moment, she whimpers. Loudly.

The boxer looks up, eyes zeroing in on them, he shouts the alarm, and the bulldozer boys come hurtling towards them. Courtney clings to his leg and starts to wail. But Sherlock is still looking at the boxer. There’s this look in his eye, and in seconds, Sherlock knows what the others weren’t told. The contingency plan.

Everyone’s expendable.

Sherlock hurls her up sideways and runs for their lives. Taking his own advice, and very nearly smacking her head on the doorframe, he doesn’t stop running; they go out the door and directly forward, as far away from any standing structure as he can get them. He sprints across the road, through an empty plot, up a sand bank, and throws them down the other side.

“Get down, lie down!”

Sherlock crouches over her, braced on his knees and forearms, staring back the way they came to check that no one’s followed. Heavy wool falls over them, as he presses her face into his chest to shield her eyes, firstly because of exposure to fire and/or debris, but also because children shouldn’t see these things. Even he knows that. He only prays they made it far enough.

The explosion is less impressive than anticipated, the energy focused upwards rather than out, but there’s still shrapnel raining from the sky. A shard of wood falls just a few feet away, still burning, and Sherlock presses his forehead to the dirt, ears ringing from the blast. For a few seconds, he’s convinced it wasn’t enough; warm blood soaking through his trousers. But the panic doesn’t last long, and he wrinkles his nose in disgust. She’s not bleeding, she’s only wet herself, and children are allowed to do that when they’re frightened. Or so he’s told.

He waits a long time before he decides it’s safe, constantly trying to convince her too. But everything is just a bit too much for a nine-year-old to handle, and she won’t let go of his neck as he struggles to find his feet. It’s an awkward way to do it, but she’s in shock, so he lifts her in an odd, half sitting bridal style, and starts slowly dragging them across the field, his back positively on fire.

For a healthy nine-year-old, she seems unreasonably heavy, and she’s doing her very best to hang all that weight from only seven vertebrae. He shifts her up, trying to readjust, but those tiny little arms are determined to strangle him.

Why on earth do people do this to themselves?

Someone is shouting in the distance, and another screaming, presumably from being burnt alive. Sherlock talks to distract her, trying not to trip as he zeros in on the flashing lights.

“See? We made it through the door, just like I said. All we need now- _Christ_ Courtney! I know you’re scared and everything, but please remember that I do have to _breathe_. Thank you. Let’s go find Greg, hmm? I think he’ll be quite pleased to see you.”

~

They detonate early. They detonate _seven hours early_ , with absolutely no warning.

John was right, they waited too long. Secretly, Greg was hoping they wouldn’t have to storm the building, that Sherlock would get there first, because no one wants a child in the crossfire. Maybe that’s why he didn’t make the call. But it’s no excuse, this is his case, _his_ call. A nine-year-old. He remembers his girls at that age, their bubbly, cheeky faced smiles; and wants to be violently sick.

Glass smashes behind him, and he tears his eyes from the fire. John has somehow managed to kick out the reinforced glass of the passenger side window. And he is _angry_.

“Tell me he wasn’t in there when it went up. Tell me he got out.”

There’s a horrific scream, a man stumbling from the burning building. Six officers rush to help him, but even from 50 yards, Greg knows that man is not Sherlock.

He stares at John, because he doesn’t know. Because there’s every chance Sherlock Holmes is burning alive, and there’s every chance Greg could have saved him. Or John, if he’d let him go. In lieu of speaking, he unlocks the handcuffs.

“Sir.”

Donovan is not watching the fire like the rest of them, she’s looking way off to the right; the scrubland of a block never developed. Something is moving, sliding down the embankment to solid ground. Lestrade shuts his eyes. The profile’s not right.

They either fall to their knees or bend down, it’s impossible to tell, the shape almost distorted somehow, but you can hear them whispering. Then the blob breaks in two, and the smaller half takes off like a rocket, racing towards them.

Courtney Hayes crashes into Greg’s knees, crying hysterically, asking if he’s ‘the grey man in the suit.’

John and Donovan sprint right the other way. They find Sherlock alive and panting, hands braced on his knees.

“Jesus Sherlock.”

Sherlock looks up incredulously.

“Where the _hell_ have _you_ been?”

Tugging him upright, John pulls him into a bear hug.

“Are you okay?”

“Is she?”

“Girl’s fine Sherlock, answer the damn question.”

“I lost my chance at a rematch, was almost blown up, narrowly avoided being throttled by a small child, and I may have pulled something in my back.”

Sherlock beams at him, “Egg noodles?”

~

There’s no egg noodles yet.

Back at the Yard, the case goes on. Because while Sherlock has been busy playing the superhero carrying children out of burning buildings at the eleventh hour, saving the day and the careers of everyone in the room; that’s only half of it.

There’s still the issue of the perpetrators. Because from what Sherlock could tell; none of the bosses bothered to show, not even for the camera.

That’s not to say Lestrade isn’t impressed; so far Sherlock has practically worked the case single handed and without him, they’d never have found Courtney. Plus, that’s one hell of an image; Sherlock carrying her to safety like that, and if he were an officer he’d get a medal for this. He’s half a mind to ask for it anyway.

Unsurprisingly, it’s the silent treatment from John, but Greg supposes he’s well and truly earnt it.

The room is practically buzzing from the win, diving into the files with renewed energy. The immediate pressure is gone, and it’s time to serve out some justice.

~

Soundlessly and without warning, Sherlock crumples to the ground in the middle of the incident room.

~

There’s half a second of horror where everyone freezes, staring at Sherlock sprawled out on the floor. He’s worked beside them none stop, carrying the investigation with his energy. They’ve seen what he can do and after five days of it; there’s more than a bit of hero worship going on. It’s a shock to the system when Sherlock Holmes goes down.

Then John comes in, two Styrofoam cups of tea in his hands. The first thing he notices is the dead silence of the room, and then his eyes fall on Sherlock, lying on his side; motionless. John Watson doesn’t freeze, even having the thought capacity to hurl the tea in the vague direction of a bin. The spell is broken, and John is shoving people out of the way left, right, and centre.

Greg’s certain he didn’t trip or anything like that, because he didn’t go down in stages; he just went completely boneless, without even a change of expression.

At his side, John tries to rouse him unsuccessfully, taking his pulse, checking his pupils, pinching his ear.

“Sherlock, can you hear me? Sherlock? C’mon mate.”

Sherlock is not having any of it; stubbornly non-responsive, and Greg can’t stop staring at his arm, stretched on the carpet, palm up and horrifyingly limp. John carefully repositions his head in case he’s sick, and straightens up a little, scrubbing a hand over his face.

He takes Sherlock’s pulse again.

”Donovan, call an ambulance.”

Every heart in the room skips a beat as Sally immediately starts punching buttons. Greg makes it across the room in four massive strides, voicing the question everyone is desperate to know.

“John, what is it, what’s wrong with him?”

John looks up, and it’s when they lock eyes, that Greg knows it’s serious. John’s anger is not directed at him specifically anymore, but my god is he angry, and strangely, Greg thinks that anger might just be for Sherlock.

“I’ll tell you what’s bloody wrong with him; sleep deprivation. He hasn’t eaten or slept since the moment you put him on the case, and it’s been how many days now? Five. Do you know what _happens_ when you don’t sleep for five days?”

John pauses, and looks away, anger draining out of him.

“Organ failure. His kidneys are shutting down.”

All the air goes out of the room, and Greg almost has to ask for a chair. He stares at Sherlock lying there, potentially dying from spontaneous renal failure, and wants to hug and shake him at the same time.

“He hasn’t slept in _five_ _days?”_ One of the younger ones pipes up.

Sherlock has literally worked himself into a coma. Pro bono.

John looks up, snapping at him.

“He had to solve the case, didn’t he? To find the girl. This _fucking_ case.” John turns back to his patient, “Sherlock, you idiot.”

John’s hand doesn’t leave Sherlock’s shoulder for a second, and Sherlock’s face, blank and slack, is one of the most distressing things he’s seen after more than two decades on the job. It’s also very private, and Greg is overly aware of the audience. He orders them out, shepherding as many people as he can into a nearby conference room until only Sally, and about six other essential personnel are left.

“Sally, ETA?”

“Eight minutes.”

John shakes his head, and tries the pinch trick again, before abruptly, and to the shock of everyone in the room; straight up slapping Sherlock across the face. No result. John shakes him again, hard.

“Damn it Sherlock; _wake up.”_

Greg shoots a murderous look over his shoulders at the onlookers who should be doing their damn jobs.

A few moments pass, and then John’s hand moves up under Sherlock’s nose at the speed of light.

“Oh no you fucking _don’t.”_

John not-so-gently shoves Sherlock onto his back and climbs on top of him, starting compressions.

“He’s not breathing. Sally I need them now!”

They’re helpless to watch as John breathes for the both of them. One of Sherlock’s ribs cracks loudly, and Greg winces. John only grits his teeth and keeps pressing with a muttered apology under his breath. Sally is abusing the poor operator on the other end of the line.

Greg can’t believe it, he actually _cannot_. An hour ago, Sherlock was trapped in a room with a bomb and made it out without a scratch. He was standing right here, and he was _fine_ , he was totally fine! Now his kidneys are completely giving up, he needs emergency medical attention, possibly major surgery, maybe even a transplant. Three minutes from seemingly perfect health, and there’s a very real possibility that he could die.

Greg wants to rewind time, to stop this somehow, because this shouldn’t be happening, this was _preventable_. It’s ridiculous, meaningless; that after everything Sherlock has survived, this could be what kills him. It’s like a man dying from lung cancer; it’s tragic, and it’s not fair, but he still looks back and sees every cigarette he ever smoked. He can’t help but imagine how different things could be if he’d just put that lighter down. So much regret.

Just six hours sleep is all it would have taken.

Now Sherlock isn’t breathing

“Come on Sherlock, don’t do this to me. You don’t get to do this again.”

Sherlock listens, and not only does he breathe, he opens his eyes, coughing painfully as John quickly settles him back into the recovery position. Sherlock’s eyes dart everywhere before narrowing down on John and staying there; oblivious to everyone else.

“There you are.”

“What’s happening, why am I on the floor?”

Sherlock immediately moves to get up, and frowns, confused by the hand on his shoulder holding him down. John somehow manages to produce a reassuring smile, even when less than a minute ago, he was struggling to keep the bastard alive. But he only succeeds in making Sherlock more alarmed.

“You just passed out for a bit.” John lies, gently probing Sherlock’s left side, “Does that hurt?”

Sherlock inhales sharply.

“Seven.”

John stays composed, but his voice is firm.

“I’d say it’s closer to a nine actually, by the look of you. Don’t _lie_ to me Sherlock. What about the other side?”

Sherlock nods, “Yes, and for the love of god don’t _poke_ it.”

John’s lip turns up at the corner, but Sherlock is looking disoriented again, his words beginning to slur, so it doesn’t last long.

“Okay. You’re going into renal failure, but the ambulance is on the way. I need you to do something for me Sherlock. I need you to keep looking at me, don’t close your eyes, just focus on me.”

Sherlock does exactly what he’s told, struggling to keep his eyes on John without moving his head. He’s fairly calm, or as much as anyone really can be when they’ve just been told their major organs are shutting down.

Sherlock is always aloof and in control, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t turbulent; Sherlock is not a _calm_ person. He doesn’t trust doctors because he doesn’t trust anyone, and has a tendency to lash out at people trying to help. God couldn’t save anyone who tells him to _relax._

But this is _John_ , so as long as John is in his periphery; he won’t panic. And John is doing a very good job of pretending he’s not afraid.

Donovan goes running to the lifts to direct the paramedics, while Greg stays rooted to the spot, feeling absolutely useless.

Sherlock is visibly fighting to keep his eyes open, searching frantically for John as the paramedics block his line of sight. His arm slips from the side as they lift him into the stretcher, and he makes no move to lift it back up. John runs with them out to the lifts, careful to make sure Sherlock can see him at all times. But Sherlock is fading out, and all the way down the hall, John shouts at him to focus.

It feels like the entire metropolitan police force watches as he’s loaded into the back of the ambulance.

~

It’s a pleasant surprise when it turns out he’s not dead. He’s already used up the trial run for that whole dying fiasco, and honestly, he wasn’t all that impressed. Sherlock has absolutely no intention of committing to the full subscription.

Still, the legal system is not the only thing to have laws, and Sherlock can only break so many before biology fights back.

There’s a dialysis machine to his right which is unfortunate, but surgery always leaves a bad taste in his mouth, and there’s not a trace of anaesthesia on his tongue, so it’s likely he will get to keep his kidneys. 

His brother is probably already in the building, forcing non-disclosure agreements onto anyone unlucky enough to walk past. He’ll be handing them out like fliers for a missing pet. Sherlock wonders if he’ll bother with John. He’ll never sign it, but MI6 would probably appreciate Mycroft to at least make an effort. Sherlock very much hopes he’s there to see it.

Medical staff don’t sign non-disclosure agreements; confidentiality already a non-negotiable aspect of their jobs. Sherlock’s celebrity is irrelevant; it’s central London, they probably see five celebrities on a daily basis. It’s only the royals who tend to make a fuss.

That said; Sherlock is wearing a hospital gown, and exactly nothing else. That’s a lot of exposed skin, and a whole lot of giant, frantically waving red flags.

It’s an unusual rule to break, but when it comes to doctor patient confidentiality, exceptions do exist, and are not always black and white. Detection of a serious crime posing a risk to national security or in the interest of public health; it’s a doctor’s duty to report these kinds of things. Sherlock’s circumstances are extreme; he’s walking evidence of a potential threat to public safety, and perhaps to national security too, depending who you ask. It’s very rare, but the precedence to disclose without patient consent is there.

Mycroft is here to ensure no one’s asking questions.

Not that Sherlock really cares about government secrets, or even the fact that technically; he is one. If anything, the potential leverage works well in Sherlock’s favour. There’s no risk of it happening to anyone else, so it’s Mycroft’s problem not his.

But John doesn’t listen to Mycroft, and Sherlock only regrets that he had to find out like this, because he almost certainly knows the truth by now. He has a lot of explaining to do, and honestly, it’s something he should have done a long time ago.

As if on cue, John is walking across the room, and Sherlock hopes he’s had the good sense to at least nap, because there’s still a possibility he might need that kidney yet. They can’t _both_ be on dialysis, that would be ridiculous. Plus, transport is unreliable in every form it takes, and though it’s probably more than A Bit Not Good to covet your best friend’s organs; he’d take a piece of John over Mycroft any day.

One look at him, and John sags in relief.

“You’re awake.”

“You didn’t bring egg noodles,” Sherlock counters.

John is not grinning back, and Sherlock thinks his bedside manner is rather subpar.

“You lied to me. The tracker was on the car, Greg was holding the fort at Scotland Yard, and the alarm was set for six hours. Six hours sleep Sherlock, that’s all I asked. But instead you decided to sneak out and rough up some thug; yeah, Mrs Hudson ratted you out.”

Sherlock shifts uncomfortably on the mattress. He’d forgotten that particular promise, and it’s not like he _intended_ to break it; the idea just came, and he was on his feet seconds after his head hit the pillow. The lead was good, too good to be ignored.

“That lie saved a child’s life.”

John is not in the mood for compromise, and his reply is almost a roar.

“It nearly cost me yours!”

Regret punches him in the chest, not for what he did exactly, he’d do it again in a heartbeat; but for the impact on John.

“You. Stopped. Breathing. That air in your lungs right now? I had to force it down your fucking throat, and that is more important to me than any fucking case.”

Technically speaking, Sherlock is still very weak even with the dialysis, and they are _trying_ to avoid him slipping into a coma. Agitation is frowned upon. As such, a nurse pokes her head round the door in concern, but one look from John has her vanishing into the night.

No one told him he’d been resuscitated, that John almost had to _feel_ him die.

_It nearly cost me yours._

Sherlock’s life nearly ended, but it’s John who nearly lost it. He’s uncomfortable with the value placed on it, because it’s a currency he can never promise not to spend. And Sherlock hates how very desperate John is to save it, because one day, it just might bankrupt him too.

“I’m sorry I scared you.”

John’s eyes are hard.

“How long. How long did you ignore the pain?”

Sherlock swallows, because he’s guilty, but that’s just what he _does_ when he’s working. It’s mental momentum; one change to inertia can impede the flow, and once you’ve slowed down, it takes too long to catch up. Still, he knew something was wrong.

“I don’t know, a day? I’m not sure.”

John takes a deep breath, looking at the ceiling as he tries to calm down. After a beat, he closes the distance, and sinks into a chair Sherlock didn’t know existed, mind too slow to take it in properly.

“You can’t keep doing this to me Sherlock. How many times have you nearly died now? Because it looks to me like the list’s a lot longer than I originally thought.”

John speaks softly, but the words are accusing with the force of fear behind them. Sherlock looks away.

 “Would you have ever told me?”

“I don’t know how.”

It’s true. The initial surge of emotion that was his resurrection has long since passed, and the more that pain healed, the less sense it made to reopen the wound.

It’s been nearly seven months, seven months of John, and everything he’s ever wanted. He’d thought the two years that came before couldn’t hurt him anymore. And they _don’t_ ; scars fading, dreams a long distant memory. He’s _stronger_ than those memories now. But though they may not be able to touch Sherlock; they can still hurt John.

“I’m okay John.”

“You’re on _dialysis_.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, the protests of the machine in question making themselves known.

“Whatever it is you saw; it doesn’t change anything. I’m the same person I was five days ago.”

John grits his teeth.

“Except. You. Are. On. _Dialysis_.”

 _“Apart_ from that.”

Sherlock looks at him. Trying to read John Watson is no different from everyone around him. He’s not Mycroft or Moriarty, and knowing him so well, Sherlock could make a dozen deductions; blindfolded and wearing noise-cancelling headphones. But _understanding_ him is harder than anyone he’s ever known.

But John Watson always understands _him_. And Sherlock can never figure out how he does it.

“Sherlock, you don’t get it. I _know_ you’re okay. Because I know when you’re _not_ , and for a while there; you weren’t. But you _are_ now. Am I upset you didn’t tell me? Of course I am. Angry? Yeah, I’m absolutely livid; but not for that.”

Yet again, John surprises him. He’s just found out his best friend was tortured, but he hasn’t allowed it to cloud his judgement. Sherlock has experienced significant trauma, and it would only be logical to assume he still suffers from it. But John only believes what he can see before him, and he is perhaps the only one who wouldn’t jump to conclusions.

John is a doctor and a war veteran, but he is also possibly the one person alive who can look Sherlock Holmes in the eye and know what he is feeling. If Sherlock was still experiencing symptoms of post-traumatic stress after seven months sharing the same roof; John would have seen it.

Sherlock is really very good at misdirection, and an _excellent_ liar, two qualities he prides himself on. He manipulates the world into seeing what he wants them to see until he is impenetrable. Some might call it a defence mechanism, but really; that’s just how he likes it.

John Watson is infuriatingly immune. It didn’t start out that way, but John is an alarmingly quick learner, and Sherlock miscalculated just how far he’d let his guard slip. At times, John can be more in tune to Sherlock’s emotions than he is himself, and he never liked it. Because he can never hide. So Sherlock _could_ have kept it from John, with a very extreme and concentrated effort, but even then, only for so long.

John will not treat him like the victim, John will not assume Sherlock is fragile, John won’t try to find a deeper, darker meaning in everything he does and says. John is not worried that Sherlock is unstable, and John is not afraid of Sherlock falling apart.

John knows for a _fact_ that he isn’t. That’s not why John is upset.

“Because I’m on dialysis.”

John pinches his nose, and with a pang of regret, Sherlock sees his hand shaking.

“Yes because you’re on bloody dialysis! Because you lied to me, you didn’t sleep, and it almost cost you your kidneys. So no, I’m not going to bring you egg noodles.”

Sherlock contemplates this.

“That’s unreasonable.”

John stares him down.

“It’s really not.”

“I’ll ask Lestrade.”

“I’ll order everyone you know in the city not to deliver it.”

“The homeless network won’t listen to you.”

“The _restaurants_ will.”

Sherlock doesn’t point out that there’s no way to tell who the order is for if it’s under someone else’s name. He doesn’t mention that it would have to get past the nurses in any case, so if John were to bribe anyone, they’d be a much more logical choice, better still; they don’t like him, and they’d probably do it for free.

Sherlock doesn’t even want egg noodles anymore. But he doesn’t say that either because he’s basking in the pettiness of the argument.

Because John is angry, and Sherlock is okay.

~

After four days of whining, Sherlock is discharged.

There are egg noodles steaming on the counter.

 


End file.
